


Strange Attractors

by nightfallradiation



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 14:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15843141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfallradiation/pseuds/nightfallradiation
Summary: Five things that never happened to Will Graham, and one that did. (Or: five canon divergences, and a post-finale snapshot.)





	Strange Attractors

**Author's Note:**

> Contains dialogue from Savoureux.
> 
> Additional warning for gore and temporary character death in some of the (discontinuous) parts.

_five. (watch him go.)_

The Hobbs house is musty and stale, untouched since it was sealed away by the authorities. Preserved in the moment of Garret Jacob Hobbs’s death, Will feels as though he stepped into a wormhole, bringing him to the event horizon—where everything changed, when he first killed a man.

Hannibal follows closely behind him, shutting the front door. He seems intent on being as unobtrusive as possible, letting Will take the lead and becoming his shadow. Their footsteps echo in the empty hallways, the family portraits on the wall staring at them as they intrude into what once was the Hobbs family home. In the photographs, Garret Jacob Hobbs always stays a hand on Abigail’s shoulder. Possession and capture.

Finally, they reach the door leading into the kitchen. Will can see himself from weeks ago, when he was crouched behind the door and holding his gun in anticipation. The fear and desperation from then are dull echoes now. As he opens the door, he almost expects to see Hobbs and Abigail again. Instead, all he sees is a large patch of dried blood on the floor. And on the walls, arterial spray. The room is a canvas of blood and tragedy of the Hobbs family.

Despite his brain being on fire, despite everything that transpired—Will knows he isn’t the one who painted the walls with her blood. The thought sickens him.

Hannibal begins to speak to Will. Their conversation has the same familiar rhythm as always, and yet the man himself is quickly slipping away and transforming into a monster before his eyes. He’s actively feeding into Will’s doubts about himself, trying to find the crack in his mental armor to break him down. Finally, Will sees him for what he truly is. The sheepskin has been lifted, revealing the fox with blood on its teeth.

“I know who I am,” says Will. He slowly turns to Hannibal, no longer seeing the kind, if eccentric psychiatrist who was concerned for him and Abigail. What he sees is a stranger. _See? See._ “I’m not sure if I know who you are anymore. But I’m certain one of us killed Abigail.”

“Whoever that was killed the others.”

Will points the gun at Hannibal’s chest. His hands are trembling.

Hannibal remains calm and impassive, peering into Will’s eyes and holding his gaze steady. “Are you a killer, Will? You. Right now. This man in front of me. Is this who you really are?”

_You made me forget who I am._ “I am who I’ve always been. The scales have just fallen from my eyes. I can see you now,” Will bites out. Hannibal has been manipulating them all from the start, the director of a twisted stage performance where nobody except him comes out unscathed.

Hannibal continues his game of lies with Will, pretending that they’re discussing hypotheticals and vague situations when they’re discussing the truth that Hannibal managed to hide from everyone. The barest hint of a sly smile plays on Hannibal’s lips, mocking Will and by extension, everyone who he successfully deceived.

As he watches Hannibal continue in maddening arrogance, a hot, toxic anger rises in Will. _You think you’re impossible to take down. I intend to rid you of that notion._ Will is trembling and stumbling on his words. He thinks he’s losing control. Of the situation, of himself, of everything. “Wind him up and watch him go. Apparently, Dr. Lecter, this is how I go.”

Will, without hesitation, pulls the trigger. Once, twice, he loses track. The next few seconds pass in a blur. He passively registers the spray of Hannibal’s blood on his body, hot and wet. He doesn’t know if Hannibal shouts, or screams, or simply accepts his death silently. His ears are all but deaf to his thoughts. _It doesn’t feel good to kill you, Dr. Lecter. I feel nothing. Empty. Silent._

_Have I become an intelligent psychopath, or am I merely standing in your place with my empathy?_

As Hannibal’s body crumples onto the floor, lifeless and pallid, he sees Jack Crawford enter the kitchen from the corner of his eye.

“Hello, Jack,” he says quietly. The rest of the room speaks in volumes for itself. He watches Jack’s eyes move along the room, trying to survey the situation but unable to tear his gaze fully away from Hannibal’s corpse in a pool of blood.

“Will. Do I want to – what _did you do?_ ” His voice is loud, a thunderclap crackling through the atmosphere of death.

Releasing the gun from the all-too-tight grip of his hand, Will raises his arms in the air. It falls to the ground with a clatter. “You know what I did.” Jack says nothing and beckons the officers behind him to enter the room. Will’s perception is clouded by all his emotions and thoughts short-circuiting, and he can’t read Jack at all. Distantly, he wonders what it would have been if Jack had reached just a moment earlier.

But Will looks at Hannibal’s corpse and thinks _this was for the best._

The cuffs go around his wrists and he’s dragged away into the police van. Will offers no resistance.

 

_four. (the mask has fallen.)_

A dull, throbbing pain in his head wakes Will from sleep. Except he can’t remember falling asleep, and he isn’t lying down on his bed, but upright on a chair.

Slowly, with some effort, he opens his eyes. His vision is blurry and unfocused, but all he knows is that it’s definitely not his house. The dogs aren’t anywhere in sight and through his blurry vision, he sees a table with a spread of food in front of him. It smells fresh and nice, although he doesn’t think he can stomach anything at this point in time. Will wonders if it is one of his hyper-realistic nightmares where he’s kidnapped. He attempts to move, but his arms and legs are too sluggish for more than a spasm. There’s no energy left in him to even lift his arms up from where they are, and his legs have an odd resistance to movement. His thigh muscles are tight and aching, as though a snake is coiled around it, squeezing.

Will surmises that he’s been drugged, the simplest conclusion following all the facts. The last he remembers is being at Hannibal’s office, discussing a topic Will can’t quite recall.

The crick in his neck aches. With some effort, Will moves his head around to loosen his muscles. He’s still in the last set of clothes he remembers wearing, but someone had placed a blanket over his legs. He can’t feel it below his knees. Perhaps he’s numb from being seated for too long.

“Good morning, Will.” A familiar voice calls out to him from another room. His head cranes in the direction of the sound, and he sees the figure of a man approaching him with a cup of water.

“Dr. Lecter?” Will asks when Hannibal is near enough to be recognizable. It comes out parched, his throat scratchy. “What am I - why am I here?”

The smile Hannibal makes is enigmatic, as though he’s finding some humor in their situation which Will isn’t privy. It resembles a divine being looking down upon lesser subjects. “Drink up. I’m sure you’re feeling thirsty.”

His arms are still trembling as he lifts them to wrap his fingers around the cup. While his grip is still shaky, the water doesn’t spill as he finishes it in one gulp. He doesn’t ask for more despite his throat feeling parched, more concerned about how he ended up in this predicament than anything else.

“I regret that we have ended up like this,” says Hannibal as he takes his place at the other chair at the table. “But our game of cat and mouse has to end here, Will.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I brought you to my table today to let you see me in my entirety. Already you have seen too much, but I owe you the complete truth.”

Confused, Will looks up to survey the table and in a moment of perfect clarity, he realizes exactly what Hannibal means. A seared, salted tongue topped with sesame seeds. A bowl of soup with brains, kidneys and other offal Will can’t identify. And what appears to be the entree - finely cut shanks of meat that resemble nothing like beef or pork –

“Oh. Fuck. You – you’re the Ripper,” Will gasps, his heart lurching. A spike of anxiety shoots through him. He’s afraid to see what lies beneath the blanket on his legs, even though he already knows what he will find. “Those are the last few organs we found missing from the victims, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says. “You realized that the Chesapeake Ripper wasn’t stealing surgical trophies. It would not be long before you came to this conclusion on your own, if I were to leave you to your own.”

“You were eating them all this while.” A wave of horror washes over Will as he recalls all their previous meals together. “No. You were feeding them to us. The protein scramble you made for me, the chicken soup...”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Ah, the chicken was real. Even I cannot pass off human meat as poultry. Long pig doesn’t taste of chicken, unlike many urban legends that claim otherwise. You had, however, eaten the lungs of Cassie Boyle and other rude people I had the misfortune of encountering.”

Stomach churning, Will spits, “You’re vile. Not only do you see your victims as pigs, you treat them like meat for slaughter too.”

“The Chesapeake Ripper kills in sounders of three,” Hannibal recites the same line from Will’s assessment of him. His eyes acquire a glazed quality, and he looks melancholic. “You’re a brilliant profiler, Will. From the bodies I leave behind, you manage to see them the way I do. No one has ever come as close as you.”

“But in the end, I’m just another pig that wandered into your abattoir.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Will.” Hannibal chides. “You aren’t a pig. Far from it.” Picking up the knife on the table, he delicately slices off a portion of steak. It still looks like Will’s leg, despite being roasted and garnished with herbs. The sight fills him with revulsion.

“Why kill me now?” Will asks, refusing to look at Hannibal or what he’s doing. “The FBI already has a profile for the Ripper that will make you a suspect soon enough. You could have killed me before I was close to the truth.”

“I am often lonely, Will. But you fascinated me the moment I met you. Unlike so many others who tried to befriend me and clamored for my attention, I thought I had finally found someone who I truly could be friends with.”

The words resonate in Will despite all that was revealed during their conversation. Despite their differences, he was beginning to see a genuine friend in Hannibal, making the betrayal sting even deeper. _At least it won’t sting for much longer,_ he thinks, and tries not to give in to a crazed laughing fit. There’s something bitterly humorous about the situation to him. “But?”

“Your name – it derives from ‘William’. The strong-willed warrior, the one who conquered.” Hannibal places a slice of steak on Will’s plate and his before taking his seat again. He looks vaguely disappointed. “Instead of accepting your appetite for killing and indulging in it, you fought yourself and emerged victorious over the side of yourself you so desperately tried to temper.”

“You intended for me to become your accomplice?” Will asks incredulously.

“I am not above foolishness. I thought you would follow me down, but I was wrong.” Closing his eyes and clasping his hands together, he paints the epitome of regret. It chills Will to finally recognize the depth of insanity within Dr. Hannibal Lecter beneath the eggshell suits and paisley ties. “Tell me, Will. Do you finally find me interesting?”

Will doesn’t say a word, numb in the face of the revelations.

Hannibal raises his glass for a toast. “To what could have been.”

 

_three. (when we talk of disorder.)_

Florence is gorgeous. Will sits on a wooden chair on the balcony of their apartment, watching the people walk down the streets from above. He absently scratches the head of the stray dog he collected, a mutt with sleek brown fur named Polly. Opposite him, Hannibal has a sketchbook in hand, capturing the likeness of Will with his pencils. His drawings are now a daily indulgence, now that he has all the inspiration he needs around him – fine art, and Will.

The three of them manage to function almost like a normal family when they try. Abigail attends an Italian private school, has lunch with her friends after classes are over and learns how to play the guitar when she’s bored. Hannibal and Will visit art galleries, roam the streets and plan their next feast. Life is orderly.

Will knows it cannot last. The three of them are creatures of chaos. The facsimile of order in their lives is a lid on the pot that contains the boiling, bubbling chaos they represent. Playing at domesticity doesn’t suit them. He can sense Hannibal’s growing restlessness at Will’s hesitance whenever they hunt. His heart is still divided, and Will knows it will never be whole.

Not for the first time, Will wonders if he made the correct choice in betraying Jack by running away with Hannibal and Abigail. While he had expected that the time Abigail spent with Hannibal would have changed her into a creature more like Hannibal than not, the shades of cruelty and callousness he sees when she hunts, a vivid reflection of Hannibal’s image, makes him feel slightly ill above all else. The way she doesn’t flinch when she opens up the bowels of their victim and the way she looks at Hannibal and Will with a slight bow of her head after she kills – waiting for reassurance and praise for _murder_ – is almost too much for Will to bear.

Even the stream in his mind is no longer the safe haven he can escape to. Abigail’s presence there is not a source of comfort, but a reminder of the reality he lives in. The fish she catches and hands to Will are soaked in blood, their innards torn out of their bodies cruelly. And the way her eyes shine with a hopeful light, seeking validation from Will, just like how she looked when –

“What are you thinking of, Will?” Hannibal’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. Will turns his head to face him, seeing a fond smile on his lips. He is torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to slice his throat.

Lifting Polly up so that she rests on his lap, Will says, “About us.” Polly whines and curls up in his lap. He strokes her head methodically, an attempt to move away from his thoughts before they grow darker.

“Too often I wonder if our world is but a pleasant dream. The shattered teacup came together again,” says Hannibal. He’s still looking directly at Will, although his eyes are unfocused and eerily trance-like, trapped in his own reverie. He finally sees Mischa again, reborn into Abigail’s body.

_You shattered the teacup and assembled it again, but the pieces are all wrong. It never came together._ Will doesn’t say what he thinks. He scoops Polly into his arms and changes the topic. “She needs a walk now. Will you come with us?”

Hannibal accepts with a small smile, returning to their room to change his clothes. Will watches his retreating back, wondering how long their life as it is now will last before everything inevitably collapses.

 

_two. (think of me.)_

On a bright, spring day along the banks of a tranquil river, Will proposes to Molly. As the dogs flop about the field, their bellies up and barking joyfully, he goes down on his knee – it aches slightly from a boating injury, but he brushes it aside – and presents her with a small, velvet box. Her smile is radiant, bursting from the seams of her mouth and her eyes.

“Of course,” she says, her voice choked with emotion. Will rises and draws her into a hug, holding her tightly to his chest. Her acceptance means more to him than she will ever understand. Than he hopes she will understand. Even if she will never see him the way _he_ did, Molly’s love and acceptance what he needs – healing, antithesis of the destruction that plagued his life.

For the first time in a very, very long while, he steps into his memory palace and sees the rooms he built for those he cherished. The ornate wooden door at the furthest end of the hallway is slightly ajar, inviting Will to enter as it always has. Still, courtesy – and habit – dictates that he knocks the door twice before he enters the room.

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal looks up at Will from his desk and stands up, closing the file on his desk neatly.

“Hannibal.” Will doesn’t sit at the chair he has always taken during his therapy sessions. Instead, he remains standing at the doorway, looking around the room wistfully. “I’ve come here to say goodbye.”

Silence falls. He refuses to look anywhere near Hannibal, instead looking at everything he remembers in the office. The harpsichord, the bookshelves, the paintings. After a long pause, Will begins, “That time – when I told you I never wanted to see you again, to think of you again, before you turned yourself in – it was a lie.”

“And now it is the truth. What changed, Will?” Hannibal is strangely calm. His voice takes on an airier quality, as though he’s moving further away from Will.

“No one else will see you like me, and what I feel for Molly will never be as deep as what we feel for each other. But I’ve come to realize – it’s not that bad. I could get used to it. I’m comfortable with her when she is with me. We even have a proper family now. For all that we felt and said, we could never- never be happy together.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget you, or what you did to me, or anything that happened between us. Maybe I’ll even miss you sometimes. But all the futures that we had together died a long time ago, and there is no place for me to cling on to them.” Will closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, the rustic smell of Hannibal’s office never forgotten. He feels tears making tracks along his cheeks, unsure of when they had begun to shed. “Thank you, Hannibal. I loved you. Goodbye.”

When his eyes re-open, the imago of Hannibal has vanished, and the room is slowly crumbling to dust that disappears into the light. It comes with a strangely sorrowful feeling. He closes the door behind him and locks it tightly shut.

“You’re crying,” Molly says, laughing softly, jolting Will back to reality. Her thumb runs down Will’s cheek and traces the path of his tears. He leans into her touch, mirroring her smile. A foreign sensation of satisfaction and uncomplicated happiness blooms in Will’s chest. He thinks that he may just be able to become used to it.

 

_one. (lost to the sea.)_

Will’s feet lose contact with the rocky ground as he tips over the edge of the cliff with Hannibal. Around him, the wind howls, like the sound a beast makes when it has been slayed. Hannibal is saying something to him, a soft voice Will cannot discern the words of through the noise of the air rushing past their ears.

Freefall has never felt so liberating. He remembers the first time he fell – from a tree in the backyard, after successfully climbing up its trunk. The few seconds passed like a video slowed to a crawl, each moment frozen and preserved in the amber of fear. This is different. Will no longer feels scared, or even afraid of what will come. His face is tucked tightly against Hannibal’s chest, soft and warm and drenched in blood. Everything feels and smells like them, of blood and gore and beauty.

It feels marvelous. Hannibal’s arms, injured but still sturdy, wrap around him in the tightest embrace he can muster. No more deception between them, no more linoleum knife pulled on Will – it’s the embrace they share, finally, as lovers.

Lifting his face up, Will meets Hannibal’s eyes. Even in the moonlight, his eyes are still striking. They shine with unshed tears, but more than that, it’s the most blissful Hannibal has ever been. Tears warm Will’s eyes too, moved by the sight. Never has he felt a more genuine connection to another human being. Something like affection – and an unfamiliar sensation that he guesses may be pure, unadulterated love – bubbles within him, a jittery, happy feeling in his gut. He smiles back despite the deep gash on his face, the ache secondary to the euphoria he’s feeling in the moment.

Soft, bloodied lips brush against Will’s, and Will responds by deepening the kiss, refusing to let go of Hannibal. Physically, the kiss is chaste, but it feels like the final piece has fallen into the puzzle of their relationship. He wants – all Will can think of is that he never wants to leave Hannibal’s side ever again. Emotions overwhelm him. He feels the urge to let out a sob, but all he’s capable of is a throaty gasp.

“I love you, Will,” Hannibal says. The words that they’ve been dancing around, ever since they met and fell into this mess they’re too deep into – it flows out naturally, as though the words have passed Hannibal’s lips hundreds of times. Or maybe it’s just a truth he’s known for a long time, but never had the chance to vocalize it. Never given the chance.

The water parts around them with an explosive splash. It crashes loudly the moment they break the surface of the water. Will doesn’t feel much pain, adrenaline in his veins allowing him to focus on the only thing that matters. He can’t see anything else beyond Hannibal, as everything else blends and blurs into noise. The ocean wraps around them, burying them in its murky depths.

“Hannibal, I –” _– I love you,_ Will tries to say the words, but all that he manages are bubbles from his mouth. Hannibal squeezes his arms around him tightly. Perhaps it had reached Hannibal, after all. Their bond transcends physicality in a way only they will ever understand.

Closing his eyes for the last time, Will allows his mind to finally be blissfully free of everything, immersing himself in the pure sensation that surrounds him. _This is all I ever wanted._

Together, they sink and never return.

 

*

 

_…and the one that did._

Will wakes up to the morning light from the small window on the hull of the boat. They docked at a small harbor the previous night, meant for fishermen making long trips to access amenities on land. For them, it was a safe place to refuel, where few people came and went.

Yet again, he realizes he’s been resting his head on Hannibal’s chest instead of the soft pillows on the bed, his arms wrapped across Hannibal’s waist. “Good morning, Will.” A hand runs through Will’s messy curls as Hannibal smiles thoughtfully at him. “Do you want to have breakfast now?”

Reluctantly, Will extricates himself from Hannibal. Will misses how his pack would run up to him for hugs and pets. He isn’t tactile with most other people, but he’s always been happy to have been with his dogs. Now, he realizes he likes and desires Hannibal’s touch more than he thought he would, leaning into him whenever he can. It brings him comfort, but it isn’t a replacement for having dogs around. Will plans to adopt a few once they have a permanent place on land, whatever Hannibal’s opinion on dogs be damned.

After pressing a kiss on Hannibal’s forehead, Will says, “Okay. I’ll head to the bathroom first.”

The boat is one that Hannibal bought many years before, the size and quality of the kitchen it’s equipped with marking it as his. As he washes up in the equipped bathroom, Will can hear the familiar sound of oil sizzling on the pan. He prefers to be surprised by what Hannibal cooks for him, placing trust in Hannibal knowing his likes and dislikes, and his unparalleled culinary skills.

When Will emerges from the bathroom into the dining area, the table has been set with two plates of fish and chips. The potatoes are from their food stock, of decent quality but not on the level of ingredients Hannibal kept in his Baltimore home, having to opt for those with a longer shelf-life. The fish was caught by Will, using a fishing kit in the boat’s storage. He suspected that Hannibal had kept it in the boat for Will’s sake, preparing for an eventuality like the one they have now. “I never expected you to make fish and chips, ever,” Will says as he takes his seat.

Hannibal looks affronted as he sits to the opposite of Will. “Despite what you may think of my cooking, I cook more than gourmet meals, Will. And you told me once before that you found fish and chips comforting.”

Will doesn’t recall telling Hannibal that, but he guesses that it was during one of his ‘therapy’ sessions before he saw who Hannibal was beneath the human suit. During his childhood, he spent many days fishing with his reticent father, after school and on the weekends. Fish and chips became a staple of their diet, never a week passing without eating it at least once. He can’t recall telling Hannibal of his childhood days, but many events from their shared past have coalesced into a blur. It’s also oddly nice that Hannibal is trying to make Will more comfortable through his cooking, much like how Will would get strays to trust him with his homemade dog food.

Will cuts off a slice of fish and tries it in his mouth. It’s savory and salty, but not overpowering; the taste of the trout comes through well. The chips, sliced from fresh potatoes, are fried to perfection; not an oily, soggy mess that fast food joints tend to make and not too soft until it has the consistency of boiled potatoes. A dash of black pepper added to the dish gives it a spicy kick. It makes him ravenous for more.

“Does my version compare with the one in your memories?”

“This is the best fucking fish and chips I’ve ever had,” Will says between bites. He’s still nostalgic for the fish and chips he used to eat with his father when he was young, but Hannibal’s version is an absolute feast.

Hannibal is delighted. He preens like a cat when Will praises him. “I’m flattered.”

They eat in relative silence, snippets of conversation ebbing and flowing between them.

“How are your wounds today?” Hannibal asks as they wash the dishes. He monitors Will closely to observe the recovery of his facial muscles damaged by Dolarhyde’s knife, and also because he just likes looking at Will in general. It’s been getting less sore and easier to move his jaw, and he manages to chew on his food with only a dull ache in his wounded cheek. The other injuries on his body are recovering too, although his shoulder aches a lot more and Will finds it more difficult to move than before. He doesn’t expect a full recovery for that.

Shrugging, Will says, “Getting better. It doesn’t hurt that much when I move my jaw now. What about yours?”

“I feel a lot less weak. I could help you around on the ship later if you’d like.”

Will takes Hannibal up on that offer. He lets Hannibal do the easier tasks like filling the water and oil tanks, reserving the more technical jobs for himself. By the time they’re done and ready to set sail again, it’s nearing noontime. Will isn’t reluctant to leave, as the longer they stay on land, the more they risk capture. The harbor gradually fades into the distance as they sail away.

The days at sea pass by peacefully, their idyllic life in ironic contrast to their previous life involving much bloodshed and murder. Will is aware that their life isn’t always going to be like this, and the both of them would soon be bored by it if nothing changes. After lunch, they sit beside each other on the bow deck, enjoying the cool sea breeze in the warm sun. They read to pass the time – Will’s reading an anthology of Agatha Christie mysteries he found at a dock while Hannibal is engrossed in a thick tome written in Italian which remains indecipherable to Will.

Absorbed in the stories, Will keeps his eyes on the words until he hears Hannibal abruptly closing his book shut and placing it to the side.

“Bored of your Italian book?” he asks.

“You’ve always been more interesting to me than the books I read, Will.” A kiss at the tip of his ear, followed by one to his jaw and more trailing down. “I could fill pages upon pages of observations and minutiae about you, and it would never compare you in the flesh and blood.”

Hannibal’s attempt at distraction is sufficiently effective. Will marks the page with a bookmark and puts the book aside before meeting Hannibal’s lips with his own. Their tongues explore each other’s mouths, pressing and teasing at sensitive spots. The slight hitches in Hannibal’s breath contribute to Will’s growing arousal, a low and steady thrum building up in his cock.

When they finally break apart, Hannibal’s face is flushed. Will pulls a leg over and straddles Hannibal’s thighs, pinning him down with his body. He kisses Hannibal again, grinding his erection against Hannibal’s cock. It’s agonizingly hot and rough, and Will wants little more than for the cloth between their cocks to just disappear, to allow him to feel the slide of Hannibal’s cock against his. Meanwhile, Hannibal’s hands are undoing the buttons of his shirt until it hangs loosely from his shoulders. Will shucks it off, flinging it to somewhere else on the deck.

“We should – ah, we should go to our bed before –” Will gasps as Hannibal sucks a hickey on his neck – “before we end up fucking on the deck.” He nuzzles his nose against Hannibal’s hair and inhales deeply, smelling sweat and cooking oil. He wonders if he’ll begin to develop a Pavlovian response to the scents if Hannibal continues to smell like that.

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers huskily into his ear. “I want you naked and writhing on the bed.”

Shuddering at the image that Hannibal’s words conjure, Will rises unsteadily to his feet. He’s then met with the sight of Hannibal on the floor, cheeks burning, drenched in sweat and with a large bulge in his pants, threatens to undo Will there and then. His reaction does not escape Hannibal’s notice, who stands up and smirks at Will before leading him by the hand into their bedroom.

Once Hannibal has Will lying supine on the bed, he undoes his shirt, climbs above Will and lays a trail of kisses down his sternum, to the raised scar on his stomach and finally meeting the waistband of his pants. He rubs his nose against the tented surface of Will’s pants, sniffing loudly and hungrily.

“Just pull them off. Stop sniffing me,” Will snaps impatiently, his cock aching for physical contact.

“The scent of your arousal is a natural aphrodisiac, Will,” Hannibal says. He trails his nose against the hard line of Will’s cock from base to tip, keeping his hands on Will’s hips tightly.

Will groans in frustration, thrusting his hips up in vain. His cock is straining against the cloth of his boxers, the soft cotton fibers taut and feeling like they’re close to ripping if they aren’t off his body soon enough. The teasing only continues for a bit more before Hannibal finally hooks his fingers around the waistband of his pants and boxers and tugs it down to his ankles. Will kicks them off to the floor.

Without the physical barrier of clothing, Will’s cock lies against his belly, hard enough that he feels a strain in his balls. Hannibal gives him a long sweep down his body with his eyes, like how he looks at art but with much more desire and raw hunger in him. Despite having been the subject of this same look the few times they had sex, Will can’t quite rid himself of the self-consciousness that rises in him, averting eye contact.

Hannibal pushes Will’s legs apart and positions himself between Will’s knees. His cock throbs in anticipation of Hannibal’s mouth swallowing him. However, Hannibal keeps up with the teasing despite having Will all laid out for him, eager and anticipatory, leaving a trail of licks and kisses down his thighs. Will growls in frustration. “Fuck, Hannibal, get on with it.”

“Your impatience is making you terribly rude. It’s in my nature savor the amuse-bouche before the entrée.”

Sighing, Will says, “Don’t you eat me. I haven’t forgotten who I’m fucking.” Hannibal laughs, a bright sound from the pits of his belly. Although Will tries to maintain an annoyed expression, he can’t help but grin.

Will’s smile twists into a cry of pleasure when Hannibal takes the head of Will’s cock into his mouth. His tongue laps hungrily at the slit and around the head, and when Hannibal gives a light flick to a sensitive spot on Will’s cock, he chokes out a strangled moan and summons the last of his self-control to not fuck Hannibal’s mouth in earnest. Hannibal’s technique is impeccable, knowing just how to make Will lose all coherency.

Satisfied with Will’s reaction, Hannibal takes more of Will into his mouth as he wraps a hand at the base of Will’s cock, jerking Will off into his mouth as he pushes and licks at him with his tongue. Everything is hot and wet and divine, and Will manages a few mangled moans of Hannibal’s name when he’s not desperately panting. His hands dig into the sheets forcefully as he watches Hannibal suck him off, trying not to thrash and twitch as pleasure shocks his body.

“God, you’re good at this,” Will says hoarsely. He’s never had a blowjob anything like this, with unmatched enthusiasm and skill. Hannibal responds by sucking him down deeper, giving a wet lick down his cock. Will’s shout and full-body jerk rocks the boat, and he feels the familiar sensation of approaching orgasm build up in his spine. “I’m close, Hannibal.”

Hannibal releases Will’s cock from his mouth and hand. Will makes a frustrated sound at the loss of contact, hips jerking vainly into the air, and Hannibal presses his lips to his tip, swallowing the bead of precome that built up. He’s almost embarrassed by how much he’s leaking, except that Hannibal appears to have an insatiable thirst for it. Hannibal then moves down to move his tongue across Will’s frenulum, a spot so sensitive that the stimulation makes him nearly choke on air.

Finally, Hannibal slides the tip of Will’s cock back into his mouth, slipping in smoothly from all the saliva it’s coated in. As he slowly sucks deeper down Will’s cock, Hannibal runs his fingers over Will’s perineum and around his hole, taking him by surprise. His touch is light and teasing, and it’s enough to tip Will over the edge. With a cry of Hannibal’s name, Will comes in his mouth, and Hannibal continues licking and sucking at his cock as he comes in pulses. Hannibal finally releases Will from his mouth with a slick, wet sound when his cock has softened. He rises and gives Will another once-over, gazing appreciatively at Will’s sweat-soaked, flushed body.

“Come here,” Will says lazily, basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, pulling Hannibal in for a kiss. He tastes his come in Hannibal’s mouth, salty and warm. It’s definitely not the weirdest taste he’s ever encountered. When they break apart, Will’s eyes fixate on Hannibal’s face, lips red and swollen, sweat dripping down his cheekbones, and finds the view more than just pleasing. “Hand or mouth?”

Hannibal asks for his hand. They shift their positions, Hannibal lying where Will was previously and Will sitting by his side. Will rubs at the hard line of his cock through his boxers where a wet patch is. It excites Will to know how much Hannibal gets off on giving him a blowjob. The sensation overwhelms Hannibal, panting and arching his hips forward, aching for Will’s touch.

“Did you touch yourself when you were sucking me off?” Will asks.

“It was a temptation every second,” Hannibal admits. “Swallowing you whole and smelling nothing but you was too much to bear, sometimes. But I didn’t.”

“Good,” Will says, giving Hannibal a short but deep kiss.

Will pushes Hannibal’s boxers down and drinks in the sight of Hannibal’s cock, fully hard and violently red at his tip. He reaches for the lube on their bedside table, coating his hand in it before wrapping it around the base of Hannibal’s thick shaft. Will’s strokes are firm and methodical, and he lets his finger tease the head of Hannibal’s cock, running over his slit where his precome is leaking. It only takes a few strokes before he comes with a breathless “Oh, Will” on both of their chests.

Will cleans their bodies with tissues as Hannibal lays on the bed, watching him indulgently. “You’re more receptive to having sex with another man than I expected,” Hannibal says, accent thicker in his drowsy bliss brought on by the afterglow.

“I had a lot of time to think.” Will throws the used tissues in a bin before crawling back into bed and lying next to Hannibal, caressing his chest idly. Hannibal runs the curve of his palm down Will’s back in a gentle caress. They still haven’t spoken properly about the years that passed when Hannibal was incarcerated, and Will is reluctant to let Hannibal know just how much he missed him and thought of him. _Which is irrational_ , Will acknowledges, _because everything I’m doing now is incontrovertible evidence of how I couldn’t move on._ It feels like it’s tearing down yet another barrier between them as separate people, when there were so few of them to begin with.

“Did you _think_ of me when you were married?” The way Hannibal says _think_ is downright dirty. Will slaps his thigh for the comment. Hannibal winks back at him.

“For the record, yes, I did,” Will says, deciding that they’re past the point of no return, and the answer is probably what Hannibal has already known. When Molly and Walter went away for weekends to her parents’ and left him to his own devices, his thoughts invariably led to Hannibal, leading to more than one shameful jerk-off session.

Hannibal looks at him expectantly. Will darts his eyes away for a moment before continuing. “Blowjobs, giving and receiving. Fucking in your Baltimore office over that table. Occasionally, blood and murder. Like how we took down the Dragon, but a lot less spectacular and beautiful.” _And we would fuck like animals in heat after that,_ Will doesn’t say, but he knows Hannibal knows that it’s implied.

“Mm.” Hannibal makes a small, intrigued noise. “Who did we kill together?”

“Jack Crawford in your kitchen, a few times. It was faceless and nameless victims for the most part, though.” Will wonders if he’s admitted to too much.

Hannibal closes his eyes, imagining the scenes in his mind’s eye. “Your design is magnificent, Will. I would love to bring your imagination to life.”

Will surveys Hannibal before continuing carefully, “I wouldn’t be opposed to hunting with you. But we can’t just kill everyone who rubs you the wrong way, Hannibal. And no messing with the people from our previous life. They will be guarded, and we risk capture if we go after them.”

“I owe Alana Bloom her death.”

“You owe Alana Bloom for being much more accommodating to you than you deserved during your stint at the BSHCI. She could have killed you when you were at her mercy and let it look like an accident, but she let you live. She had every reason to want you dead. Please, Hannibal,” Will pleads, the prospect of losing Hannibal hitting him harder than he expects. He doesn’t think Hannibal will agree to this. Despite everything that happened, she still is – or was – a friend, and Will doesn’t want her to lose the life she has with Margot and their son.

“We won’t go after her unless she attempts to kill us,” Hannibal says after a contemplative silence. “And for everyone else who we knew. I won’t have us be captured or for me to lose you.”

Hannibal’s response takes Will by surprise, having expected greater resistance. “I don’t want to lose you too,” Will says in a voice barely above a whisper. Saying the words feels like admitting to a secret, but allowing it to be voiced lifts a weight off his chest. It’s also an indirect admission of love. Will isn’t ready to tell Hannibal that he loves him yet, although he knows it’s probably a short matter of time before he will say it, too.

But for now, in the quiet of the sea with Hannibal holding him tightly, it is enough. The universe allowed them to end up together, despite all the impossibilities. Will thinks that they have time yet.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any thoughts, feel free to leave a comment below! Hope you enjoyed the fic.


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